The air popped. A single, near-missable pop and then they simple ‘were’, having previously not been there a mere few seconds ago.

Or rather, they’d ‘been’, but had done so in a different location, in a different time.

The woman appeared to be crouching, cat-like, as if under starters orders to sprint, while the man stood tall, fiddling still with a watch-like contraption on his wrist.

Surveying the area, concluding it to be decidedly free of threat or, indeed, anything, the woman stood and turned to her companion.

“You always seem to utterly ready for danger”, he mumbled, finally pushing his sleeve over the device. His jacket was dark, though in the minimal light within the alley, one could not determine its true colour. It ended at his waist, constructed of a military-grade canvas material, and fitted to his form above dark jeans and scuffed, leather boots. The woman was dressed in a similar attire, though her thigh played host to a harness that brandished a small knife, and a sword sheaf hung snug to her back, it’s contents weighty though manageable. Her hair was long, auburn, and tied back into a messy bun. His hair was long enough to flick into his eyes and pushed back over his head, somewhat successfully, with strong hair product.

“And you always seem to utterly ready to loose a limb by not paying attention. Until your location skills with that thing are reliable, I’m not taking my chances!” She took a step toward the mouth of the alley and called back to him over her shoulder. “Are we at least in the right time? Because this definitely isn’t Westminster.”

“Yes yes yes,” he replied, walking to meet her as she continued toward the main road ahead. “Sixteen sixty three - give me some credit.”, they peered out into the street together and he laughed. “And we’re not -that- far away, come on. The Thames is just up here. Ten minutes tops…if we run.”

To say it was cold was an understatement. In fact, the only true way to describe the current climate was near ice age and historians would agree this to be the correct term when referring to this period of time. England was going through its own, mini freeze, that would continue for a few centuries until it settled into the dreary, unpredictable mess of weather that we know and love today.

As the pair ran through the semi-crowded, early evening streets of London, they passed bundled bodies wrapped in everything from their full wardrobe to their bedsheets, all lost beneath hats and scarves. Suspiciously dead-looking bodies sat hunched in the occasional store doorway and shocked gasps edited from the few who took notice, thrown by the seemingly few amount of layers worn by the pair. True, had they stopped a moment to think, they’d have no doubt felt the chill. Neither, despite their conditions, were immune to the climate. In fact, their near unique circumstances left them more vulnerable than others who shared their fate. But the adrenaline of the event kept them going - they could see to the frostbite later.

Before them, the Thames finally began to appear. Wider than its modern state, and shallower to boot, the entire river was frozen solid, and a small fair - a Frost Fair - was taking place upon its surface. The two came to a jog and finally stopped atop a bridge, peering over.

“So he’s down there?”, the man enquired, leaning over to get a better view. “Perhaps,” she replied, her left hand reaching to take hold of a clump of his jacket, steadying him as he leaned. “All I know is that he dies down there in…”, she looked up to Big Ben in the distance, squinting a little to gain better vision over the gently falling, fine snow. “…one hour. So he’s either here or on his way. Talk about cutting it fine.”

As the crowds directly below them turned their attention to a small collection of musicians busking by a beer tent, the pair flipped themselves over the edge of the bridge, landing lightly upon the ice some thirty feet below.

“So what now?” he enquired, beginning to walk around the edge of the crowds, his height allowing him to see over the bundles bodies upon the ice. “Everyone’s face is near-hidden. Even if he is here, we’ll be damned to find him.”

She knew he was right, chewing her lip in thought as she brought out an iPhone from within her pocket. The device had been taking warmth from her body and remained functional for all of twenty seconds before the error message flashed and it died. “God damn,” she muttered, slipping it back. It was a stretch to imagine they could find him via his GPS. Given the ridiculous temperature, no electronic device would dare work. They’d have to simply rely on themselves and their senses. They needed to be cunning, stealthy and on point. No giving themselves away, no drawing attention. They had thirty minutes to formulate their plan and there was no use in…in…where the hell had…”Hey!” She stalked back toward her companion who was lost in conversation with the man tending the beer tap closest to the musicians. She caught the final few words of their discussion.

‘Oh aye, I know ‘im alri’. He ‘elped me fund this stall. Y’find ‘im in the ware’ouses up there. You’ll know which when y’get there…’

“Seriously?!”, she exclaimed as they jogged away from the crowds, back up toward the aforementioned warehouses. “We’re not meant to interfere with the locals. That includes befriending them!”

Along the edge of the river stood a few identical warehouses, all of which had seen better days. And it didn’t take a genius to tell which required their attention. From a doorway twenty feet or so ahead of them, the warm orange glow of fire light spread onto the grubby white ground as cheers and applause leaked from its many cracks and holes.

The two slipped inside and both took a deep inward breath as the slight warmth of far too many fires and candles hit them - along with the smoke that came hand in hand.

The scene was immense, with groups of enthusiastic people, all equally clad as those outside the warehouse, spread around a small, crudely built ring. Various stages and boxes littered the space, each with its own loud-mouthed bookie advertising the latest odds on the two men fighting in the ring. Men drunk and yelled, women - albeit only a few of them -joined the racket while children and dogs ran between legs and up onto crates for better views.

“You’ve got to kidding me”, the man groaned, leading the way to the edge of the ring, pushing aside excitable crowds to get a better look.

Before them, bloodied and broken, stumbled a man in his early thirties. His hair, cropped short, stuck to his scalp with dripping clumps of blood, his grin missing a few teeth that now lay scattered on the sand beneath him. He staggered, managing to keep upright despite the odds and the every growing push of gravity against his tired limbs.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”, yelled the woman, calling out over the cheers and boos of the crowds. The broken man, noting the higher pitch of her voice over the majority of the masses, turned to her and blinked. He narrowed his eyes, attempting to straighten his vision, and tried to recognise her - to no avail. Taking a deep lungful of air, he called back ‘I FIYING!’ and smiled. But the woman was not impressed, and shook a hand in his general direction before directing it off to one side. “NO YOU!” she replied before turning her head. “HIM!”.

Behind the man, lost a little within the haze of smoke, stood another - his opponent. Broad shoulders, muscular and bare chested, the second man stalked a little closer and offered up a wink to her in response before clearing his throat. “What he said!”, he replied, his voice quiet in comparison to hers, though both parties heard without issue. He was talk, just over six foot, and wore his auburn hair cropped short, his face clean of stubble.

Compared to his bloodied counterpart, this second man was pristine. Though his trousers and torso were messy, this was due to the ash in the air and the dirty sand on the ground, and not the result of any injuries. In fact, as injuries go, he was completely unscathed. And though his hands were bloody, it was fair to assume this was the result of anothers blood and not his own.

“WE NEED TO TALK TO YOU!”, she called back again, this time pointing to her wrist as if motioning to a watch, though her arm was bare of such a device. “Now?”, he queried, lifting an eyebrow, “I just have to finish here and then I’m heading to the Fro -“

Given that the two were totally engrossed in conversation with each other, neither thought to keep an eye on the broken man. And as he flew through the air, ready to offer one final strike, he felt the force of a stream train crack his few remaining intact ribs as his target turned back toward him and reacted with a near inhuman speed.

"So…? the man asked as they walked away from the warehouse some five minutes later. Equally as undressed for the weather, his own attire was far more suited to the era, and far more fashionable and upperclass for the location they currently found themselves in. "Who, or what, kills me this time?"

They continued along the upper edge of the river, the three making their way toward the bridge in the distance.

“We’re not sure”, she replied, offering up a shrug. “Something…or rather, someone, but we can’t find the records. As always, Vlad claims it was him but we’re all learnt from experience how utterly full of sh*t he is. Plus history dictates he was across the water, further off toward Russia when all this was going down in England. No, whatever it is that kills you tonight definitely isn’t mortal, but I don’t think it’s him either. Right, Jack?”

The third man was trailing a little behind them, tinkering with the device on his wrist. When he heard his name, he looked up and took a minute to figure out the conversation. “What kills him?” Jack asked, reaffirming the discussion before shrugging. “I think it’s a werewolf…but that’s more speculation than anything. Tan’s the one with the better grip on facts, as we all know. But whatever it is that kills you, it does so at the Frost Fair. And, well…”

“Let me guess…”, interrupted the man, stopping to bring them both before him. “I have to somehow NOT die while letting the majority of the fair goes still be taken down?”

It was a sore subject, one that had continuously come up in conversation since Pompeii. One that never really sat right with any of them, despite the fact they all knew they had no choice. The timeline couldn’t be altered any more than required. He needed to stay alive but the rest of them, well…

“Everyone has to die sometime.” muttered Tan, kicking at a clump of ice upon the ground.

“All except me.” he replied, turning to face the fair in the distance.

They began to walk again, this time in silence, and without need of a cue, Tanvir Buckley picked up her pace a little, leaving the two men to talk alone. Jack turned to face him, took a breath and decided to remain quite, instead moving to slip his hand into that of the other. He squeezed fingers and felt his own squeezed in response. And then Jack finally spoke. “It must be weird for you,” he said, taking a step to bring him closer, their arms touching as they walk. “For me, I may not see you for a few days, but for you, those days are a few hundred years, if not more.”

The man nodded, squeezing Jack’s hand again before stopping, turning to bring them face to face. “I’ll be good when this is all over. You two must be sick of saving my hide for a living.” he let go of Jack’s hand, reaching up to push back hairs that fell across his face. “God, this must drive you crazy - it’s always in your eyes.” He pushed a few strands back behind Jack’s ear, letting his fingers trace his temple as his palm cupped his cheek.

Jack pushed his face into the man’s palm and smiled, closing his eyes for a moment. “You’re worth it, El. Besides, what else would I be doing if not travelling time to save you? Something stupid, I’m sure. But just make sure you get through this, alright? You know I can only come back once and warn you. You know how to deal with werew -”

“Yes.” Elis cut him off, first with a word and then with a kiss, as his lips pressed damp and hard against Jack’s. The hand that once cupped his jaw moved behind his neck and brought him close as the pair allowed themselves a moment, forgetting about the cold, the crowds and the impending threat of something inhuman and probably werewolf that was set to tear him limb from limb. And as they parted, a loud, echoing “GET A ROOM!” erupted from the woman a little way down from them, loitering by a warehouse entrance. “WE’VE GOT TO GO!”

Jack laughter a little, pressing his forehead against Elis’ own and gave a final nod.

“Find me again soon?” Elis questioned, tilting his chin to kiss Jack’s nose. “Always”, Jack Horton replied, taking a breath before removing himself from the spot, running back to the bridge to meet with Tanvir and jump time once more, as Elis Griffyn turned toward the fair to meet his fate.